When my younger son C2 was five, he had a knack for finding the quiet corners of our house for his creative play, and, mostly, we delighted in his creations. I grin to see him in memory… his eerily perfect imitation of a velociraptor (after watching the BBC documentary Dinosaurs a gazillion times), a Caped Crusader ferreting out the bad guys with wicked Bat moves, his penchant for catalogue clippings, particularly at Halloween when he cut out any ad donning a ghost or witch or jack-o-lantern and taped them all (and there were hundreds) to the outside of our house. But once in a while, his love of solitary play left us all a little perplexed and thoroughly depleted. Continue reading
It wasn’t the first such postal advertisement I’d received though perhaps the first I’d given more than a cursory glare and the standard rant of expletives. Was it the recent flood of ads from this industrial mammoth that gave me pause? The obscene sums of money dumped into a campaign of such obvious deception? Maybe the gnawing fear that such schemes must have their effects… or why bother? Continue reading
It is Memorial Day, 2014, and below I am re-posting a piece I wrote last summer in order to honor the sacrifice, courage, and service of Pvt Chelsea (Bradley) Manning. I’ve struggled with the appropriateness of re-posting my own writing, which seems particularly ingratiating with this piece, by far the most popular post on my blog–at least in terms of the number who read it. Continue reading
Inevitably we look upon society, so kind to you, so harsh to us, as an ill-fitting form that distorts the truth; deforms the mind; fetters the will.
Three Guineas. Virginia Woolf, 1938.
This morning I rose with the dawn to spend a little time inspecting all the greens that emerged after the Mother’s Day snowstorm and several days of heavy rain. Surprises abound. Continue reading
For the first time in about two weeks, I am quiet in my own house. Continue reading
What was the spirit in her, the essential thing, by which, had you found a glove in the corner of a sofa, you would have known it, from its twisted finger, hers indisputably?
Virginia Woolf on Mrs. Ramsay, To the Lighthouse
Mother’s Day, and I’m writing something my mom will never see though mostly she loves to read these little musings of mine. Here’s why she won’t see it: Continue reading
In the spirit of Valentine’s Day past, I’ll start with a lay-out of the menu: take-out from our favorite pig joint to include pork short ribs in Asian-buffalo sauce, soft bacon-wrapped stuffed jalapeños in a sweet drizzle, and a pinkish pork tenderloin topped with a figgy apple drench. Probably a little more sugar than I should have, but totally worth the V-Day splurge.
Here lay the difference between this Valentine’s and previous: it was a dinner shared with my 19-year-old son, home from college to do some laundry. Continue reading